The Good Habit

The Good Habit

By Geraldine Donaher

Pushing away doubts about a vocation is exhausting. My spiritual director says, “Prayer is empowering and peaceful when done with an open mind.”

I answer, “Then I’m a hypocrite staying in a life that I think God doesn’t want for me.”

He sighs and tells me I’m not praying the right way. 

I don’t think I can do this much more. It’s been the same conversation every month for about a year. As I pull out of the seminary parking lot, I take one more look at the ominous building in my rearview mirror. This will be my last visit. What makes him think he’s right and I’m wrong? 

Maybe the only thing I’ve been doing wrong is listening to him instead of my own gut. Why haven’t I trusted that God is talking to me within my own heart? Telling me I should leave.

The theology behind these thoughts gets a little heavy and that’s when I move prayer into movement, exercise. I drive back to the convent anticipating a good run to calm all my uncertainties. It’s been my lifeline ever since the first doubts crept into my head two years ago.

I’m fully aware that I’m the only Sister in the convent that needs to run in order to breathe in this life. I had to get permission to ‘go for a jog’ from my superior. At first, Sister Mary Regina said, “No, the Sisters in this convent will not want you running around the neighborhood in your gym clothes.”

I can be stubborn and said, “Then I’ll run in my habit.”

She looked at me and I didn’t look away. I did make my face as subservient as possible.

It worked. Three days a week for the past two years I’ve gone for a run around the neighborhood. 

In my religious garb.

I park the maroon Chrysler we all share and head up to my small bedroom. There’s just an hour before vespers and I hope to slip out before anyone slows me down. 

Quickly, I Velcro my navy-blue cincture on top of the scapular to keep it from flapping around as I run. I lace up my white sneakers and they hug my feet like the security of an old friend. I stand and smile until I see my reflection in the small mirror. Running around Drexel Hill in my habit always draws attention and people usually point as they laugh. But running is the way to disperse the heavy doubts that weigh on me. 

My face gives a reassuring smile, “So what? Let them laugh.” I nod and with determination head down the steps and out the convent back door.

As my feet pound a slow rhythm into the pavement, my body awakens. My arms swing and as they move to the beat, blood pumps through sleepy veins. I feel it coursing through my body and my lungs expand. I breathe deeply, bringing the outside in. The rhythm of the run breathes new life into heart and soul.  

I catch a side view of myself as I run past the hardware store windows on Garrett Road. My veil flows behind me, the back of my scapular looks like a cape flapping in the wind, the dark blue mid-shin dress bounces between my legs, and my white sneakers scream for the very attention that makes me cringe. I look like I belong on the set of that old TV series, The Flying Nun. 

But I feel great so keep running.

It’s the slippery damp leaves on the train tracks that I didn’t think about and I end up sliding and quite ungraciously, fall forward. Gravel and broken asphalt burn into my palms and a sharp pain pierces my right knee. I roll over to inspect the damage: my knee stings as blood trickles down my shin and my palms are embedded with stone and asphalt. I sit and contemplate how to explain this to Sister Mary Regina. She’ll worry about me and take my running privilege away. 

I won’t tell her. 

There are some things she just doesn’t understand. Like how running makes me feel strong and competent, breaking up all the uneasy feelings that crop into my day. How the intense feelings of blood surging through my body, muscles flexing rhythmically, and oxygen filling my lungs unites me with my Creator more intimately than anything else. The Creator lives within, not hanging on the wall or encased in gold. 

A man from across the street yells, “Sister, are you okay?” I look over, mortified. Three cars stopped at the red light and the drivers are leaning out their windows to get a better view of the nun on the tracks. I stand quickly, ignoring the pain that shoots through my knee. Luckily, my habit hangs about three inches below my kneecap and hides the bloody gash. I clasp my hands under my scapular to hide my palms.

With clenched teeth, I smile and then shout back, “Wow! This is embarrassing! I’m fine though! Thanks for checking!” They don’t bother to get out of their cars. Thank God. I try not to limp as I turn and walk up the street. 

The driver in the red pick-up truck U-turns and stops next to me, “Want a drive back to the convent?”

“Really, I’ll be fine,” I feel the heat flush my face and put my head down.

“As long as you’re okay.”

Pain radiates from my knee each time I take a step but I know better than to ride with a stranger. And even if he is perfectly harmless, what would the Sisters say when I pull up to the convent and hop out of a red truck? 

There are no words.

“Thanks anyway. It’s just up the street. I’ll be fine.” I walk away and he pulls slowly into traffic.

The mile walk back to the convent is just enough to calm my nerves. The Sisters are in chapel waiting for me so we can start Vespers. I slip into the first floor bathroom and quickly wash up. There’s a first aid kit stored under the sink and after I clean the wound, the hem of my habit hides the four-inch square band-aide. As I put the kit back my hand knocks over a small container of powder.  I throw the front of my scapula over my shoulder, unzip my habit, and sprinkle powder on my breasts and belly. When I zip it back up, some white powder clouds onto the navy-blue material. But when I flip the scapula back to the front, all is hidden. No one will ever know. Safe and clean from the pebbles and blood, and dry from all the sweat, the whole experience makes me feel alive. I need to run and can’t wait to go out again.

Once I’ve joined the others in the small chapel, Sister Mary Regina begins Vespers with the usual, “Oh God, come to my assistance…”  and like every other evening, we answer, “Oh Lord, make haste to help me.”

After my running mishap this short prayer takes on a whole new meaning and I stifle a giggle at its appropriateness. The habit may keep it a secret from the other Sisters, but I feel God chuckling along with me. This intimacy with my Creator -  this is why I stay. 

For now, anyway.